


Hellbound

by badwolfrun



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Father Figures, For Warrick, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stabbing, Suicide mention, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 08:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18116675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/badwolfrun
Summary: Nick has been acting increasingly reckless after Warrick’s death, and Grissom tries to approach him about it, but Nick is too distracted by his determination to bring a dangerous serial killer to justice.





	Hellbound

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to send a thank you to everyone who supported me, listened to me, provided feedback or even just “liked” posts I made about this fic. You all kept me going, this fic probably wouldn’t have happened without all of you! 
> 
> Set in Season 9, after "Say Uncle."

He didn’t hesitate to chase after the so-called “police officer” that ran out of the liquor store with a woman’s purse. Part of him knew it was a stupid idea, to chase after the pseudo-cop without backup. He had even sent his backup away. But some deep rooted instinct had told Nick Stokes to run into the eye of the storm, and he wasn’t going to drag Riley Adams into that storm without knowing she was capable. He told her to call it in, to go help the woman that was pushed by the suspect. He heard her speaking quickly into the radio as he began to sprint.

He didn’t hesitate to pursue the suspect, even as shots were being fired back at him. He’s stared down the barrel of a gun far too many times to be intimidated by a few stray bullets whizzing past his ear. He had only taken a few pauses, to catch his breath, to gather his bearings, to convince the suspect that it was over, and to hear Riley call out to him from the alley, telling him that the now deceased suspect had company in the dumpster turned grave.

He did hesitate, however, as he stared down into the dumpster, staring at his multiple reflections in the shards of broken glass, illuminated by the neon sign in the alleyway. In this moment, he realized that he easily could have landed in that very dumpster. He walked back through the building, the sweat on his skin cooling down his body, the adrenaline surging through this veins slowed to a stop as he spotted every single bullet that he had dodged. He met up with Riley in the alley, nodding before she could even ask the question, “are you okay?” Riley began to talk, to hypothesize on what may have led that poor woman to this dumpster, before offering to walk back to the car and grab their kits so they could start processing.

Nick was only half listening, still panting, the sound of police sirens ringing loud in his ears. He once again stared into the broken shards of glass, and he saw a very distinctive expression in his eyes. An expression he had seen in other reflections; in a suspect’s house, in the one-way mirror of the interrogation room, in a plexiglas box six feet under the ground. It was the expression of a man who was painfully aware of his own mortality, and how easily his time on this earth could come to an end.

But that didn’t stop Grissom from reminding him anyway.

“You know, Nick, you’re lucky you’re not in here, too.”

He could hear the anger and concern in Grissom’s voice, but what stung the most was the notes of disappointment. It was in an alley, just like this one, where Nick had strolled by. He was in the midst of a daydream, of waking up next to a beautiful red haired woman. His hand clutched a piece of paper with a name and a phone number.

A piece of paper which dropped, and that he had forgotten all about when he saw a man sitting on the ground next to a parked car with the engine still running. The man was sobbing, clinging onto a body. Out of instinct, he had began to run towards the scene, shouting immediately to the man. He dug out his phone from his pocket, ready to call 911, but he saw another man, previously hidden in the shadows. The man was speaking in a loud, rushed voice, barking out orders. It was then that the sirens that his mind had previously filtered into white noise connected to the bloody mess that lay ahead.

To this day, he still can’t connect the sobbing man to Gil Grissom. The man, clinging to Warrick’s body as if he was about to fly away at any minute, had a certain darkness, a sadness unlike anything Nick’s ever seen before. He’s met with the parents, the siblings, the lovers of victims before, and seen this look of despair, after losing someone so important to them that they just can’t deal without. It’s a look he never thought he’d see on the face of his mentor, and it just _did not_ suit him. Nick’s stomach had churned as Warrick’s body was covered, and he finally got a good look at Grissom, at the massive amount of blood on his shirt, his hands, even his _face_ , which had transferred onto him as he clutched onto the lifeless body of a colleague, a close friend...a son _._

But that broken man, sitting on the ground, clutching a bloodied jacket like a lost child holding a blanket, was not the same man that Nick had looked to when he was in need of a leader, someone to give him guidance. When he needed to get approval on something, to solve a case and bring justice to the victim and their family. When he was in need of support, as he cling onto a human arm, desperate for connection...when he he needed a father.

The bloody mess, however, he had no trouble in connecting to the lifeless body of his best friend, Warrick Brown. It was an image that stayed with him even after the wake, after the funeral. It was another image that haunted his nightmares, but it was a nightmare he didn’t particularly mind, because it was a way of seeing him again. He would always try to talk to him in his dreams, but Warrick would just be still, blood oozing from his mouth.

“Understood,” Nick responded, knowing that Grissom suffered the same, if not worse nightmares.

Super Dave arrived to the scene a couple minutes later, releasing the entire dumpster to be transported back to the lab. Nick collected his kit and stared up at the window, where the liquor store thief had fallen through. It was peculiar to Nick, because that part of the building had seemed abandoned when he chased the suspect through it last night. He told Riley not to wait up and headed towards the shadow, but nobody was there.

He found himself leaning against the window, contemplating on how maybe he was just tired, Halloween night is always a long shift, overtime is guaranteed. He even considered the possibility that maybe he saw a ghost. He can still hear the screaming of the man who fell through the window, after all.

He looked down at the spot where the dumpster once sat, and for the second time that day he could have sworn he saw another ghost standing in the alley. This ghost looked like Warrick, staring up at Nick and shaking his head. But he didn’t look like the Warrick in his nightmares. There was no blood, his clothes were clean.

Nick’s mouth gaped open, he pinched himself to ensure he wasn’t dreaming. Warrick was still there, putting his hands in his pockets before turning away.

Nick blinked, and Warrick was gone.

———————————----

The Strip never had a nighttime. Neon flooded the buildings, the street, even the air, giving tourists the illusion that it was still early enough to spend some time exploring the various casinos and restaurants. Swarms of tourists and locals alike frequented this adult playground in the middle of the desert, and Nick was no exception.

He was wandering aimlessly, having just parted ways with Greg Sanders. They had gone out for a drink, after a particularly rough case, in which Nick had yet another brush with a suspect and a gun. The case initially started as a gun store robbery, and escalated into a hostage situation. They had tracked down the troubled teenager, who was threatening to shoot up an entire office that his abusive dad worked at. Nick thought that he could talk down the suspect, because that poor kid just looked _so scared_. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy, especially once he found out that the abusive dad had let the kid’s mother die of an overdose without calling the police.

So naturally, he went into the office, _alone_ with no gun, and instantly the suspect freaked out, pointing the gun at Nick. Nick remained calm, faking a story to try and talk down the youth who was starting to put just the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger. The cool and calm approach didn’t work. The suspect was yelling at Nick, telling him to “stay away” and was threatening to “blow his head off.” Nick decided to try some scare tactics, describing what it’s really like to shoot a gun, describing what _really_ happens when someone’s head is shot at point blank range, which definitely scared him alright...into shooting one of the hostages.

It was then, that Nick decided enough was enough, batted the gun out of the teen’s hand, and pinned him to the ground.

Everyone considered Nick a hero, and the entire crime lab and police department went out to celebrate, but Nick’s heart just wasn’t in it. An innocent man died because he goaded the suspect into pulling that trigger, and it’s a sheer miracle that bullet wasn’t fired at him instead.

He didn’t know what time it was, but it must have been getting late. Many of the night shift crew were starting to filter out, although some of them, Nick included, were given the night off. He had sulked into the bathroom, to wash his face, and he could have sworn he saw Warrick in the mirror, standing behind him, but when he spun around, Greg was there instead.

“Hey, man, you all right?” Greg asked him, his brows furrowed in concern. “Why aren’t you out celebrating?”

“Just...needed a minute,” Nick mumbled. He turned the sink on and splashed water onto his face.

“Too much to drink?”

 _Not nearly enough_ , Nick thought to himself.

“Yeah, something like that.”

There was silence, disturbed only by two streams of liquid, flowing in the same direction, in the same pace, but in two separate worlds.

Nick turned the flow off, cleared his throat, and headed towards the door, giving a slight nod to his friend, who gave him a quick, confused look.

“Hey, uh, I was about to invite some, uh...friends back to my apartment if...you wanted to--”

“Nah, G, I’m beat, I’m probably just gonna head home. Why don’t you ask Riley? She’s been giving you looks all night, man.”

Nick did his best to plaster an encouraging smile on his face. Greg chuckled, as he zipped up his pants and washed his hands. It was the first time Nick saw Greg crack a smile in a long time.

“Not really my type, if you know what I mean. Besides, inter-departmental relationships don’t, uh...don’t seem to be going so well lately.”

The smile slid off of Nick’s face, and he nodded, holding open the door. He paused, his lips parted, he took a breath in, as if to say something. But instead, his tongue poked out and licked his lips and he gave Greg a half-smile.

“Yeah...I’ll see you around, Greggo.”

“Hey, Nick--” Greg began, but the door swung shut behind him. Nick found himself wading through the crowded bar. The bar had been dimly lit, a thin layer of smoke flooded the air. There were voices, too many voices for Nick to focus on, he heard mixtures of both serious and irrelevant conversations alike. There was loud music, pounding at such a high volume through the speakers that Nick’s ears felt like they were going to bleed.

He leaned onto the bar counter, to pay his tab, but the bartender told him it was taken care of. Nick didn’t bother asking who paid it, because in that moment he felt a thousand eyes staring at him. He felt everyone closing in on him. He felt everyone patting him on the back, telling him, “good job!” He felt the admiration and support from all of the Crime Lab and Police Department, and yet, he felt so alone.

He also felt like he couldn’t breathe, and ran out of the bar.

He checked his watch, it was half past midnight. After pulling a double to finish that robbery case, he wasn’t expected back at work until much later that night. He knew he wasn’t going to much, if any sleep in that time, so he decided to stay out a bit longer.

Nick remembered the first time he came to Vegas, during his college years, his frat house took a trip to celebrate the start of their senior year. Due to those celebrations, his memory of that trip was hazy, but he’ll never forget seeing the Strip for the first time. He had explored every casino, checked in to every hotel, ate at every restaurant. It was during a taxi cab ride back to the airport when he realized that this was a place he could call home.

For some reason, he also can’t seem to forget that taxi cab ride. He barely spoke to the driver, as he was suffering from one of the worst hangovers he ever had in his life, even though at the time he had zero regrets about it. He remembered the driver asking him why he came to Vegas in the first place, and he remembered the back and forth about college and majors that followed. The driver said he was studying in the same field as Nick, mentioned something about a lecture in San Francisco he was thinking about going to. Perhaps the driver stuck out to Nick because he inspired Nick to spend a weekend in San Francisco, more for educational purposes than pleasure.

Perhaps the driver stuck out to Nick because he’s never quite realized that he met that driver again a few years later, when both men had graduated college, and when Nick transferred to the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

He wished he could feel the same joy and wonder the he once felt, that first time he came to Vegas. He had somehow always managed to keep at least some of that sensation, even with all of the crime scenes he’s had to work on this street. Maybe the Strip had stayed as bright as the smiles on his friends and family’s faces, as he toured them around Vegas. Maybe he was able to still see the vibrance, as he walked side by side with the team, chatting about cases and non-work related topics alike.

But as he walked past tourists who were in awe, he found that the Strip just wasn’t as bright or vibrant. The curtain had been pulled away, he saw the Strip for its true artificial nature. There is nothing that can capture the youthful joy that the Strip attempts to convey. He’s watched relationships and families fall apart because of the gambling addiction that the Strip doesn’t just act as a home for such a terrible thing, it encourages it.

He came to a crosswalk, and ignored his mother’s warning in his head, “look both ways before crossing the street.” He nearly tripped as he stepped down onto the street pavement and lifted his head up to the other side of the street, contemplating entering one of the casinos and hanging around the slots or blackjack table for a bit.

He stopped, in the middle of the crosswalk, when he saw a man standing on the sidewalk in front of him, making direct eye contact with him. The man didn’t look like a tourist, and was dressed in a green jacket. A tall, handsome man with a short afro and shining eyes.

It was Warrick.

He blinked, and Warrick was still there. He pinched himself, and Warrick was _still there_.

“Warrick?” Nick blurted out, he was about to take a step forward when a horn blared loudly in the air, keeping him glued to the spot. He barely had time to register the car that sped past him--which would have hit him had he moved forward. He spun his head to the left, and followed the colorful blur nearly grazing his feet to his right. He could hear voices from all directions, yelling at him, “get out of the street, you moron!”

He filtered out the shouts, and instead directed his focus back to the man in the green jacket, who had already turned away and was walking away.

“WARRICK!” Nick shouted. The world felt tilted, perhaps an effect of the whiplash from his most recent near miss. He broke into a short jog to try and catch up with the man, but the sidewalk was more crowded than ever before. He waded his way through people as swiftly and politely as he could, but Warrick was getting further and further away.

He kept shouting his name, but Warrick never turned to look back at him. He briefly wondered why he was even in pursuit, Warrick Brown is dead. He saw his body. He carried the casket. He buried him.

Finally, he caught up to the man, and startled him after grabbing onto his shoulder, spinning home around.

“Rick?” Nick panted, but the confused civilian, who was not Warrick Brown, gave Nick a confused look.

“S-Sorry, you...you look like someone I knew,” Nick stammered, quickly removing his hand from the man’s shoulder. The man gave Nick a rude gesture and walked away.

_Stupid...He’s dead. Warrick’s dead and he’s not coming back._

He thought he was past this. He thought he was done seeing ghosts. It’s been weeks since he said his final goodbye to his friend. The time for grieving was over, and he knew that Warrick wouldn’t want Nick to live in this kind of misery for the rest of his life.

Besides, the team needed him. Grissom was having a rough time with all of this, between what happened in that alley and Sara leaving him...again. Catherine needed someone to help her focus, she was one of the strongest women Nick has ever known, but he knows her well enough to know she’s been working far too many hours as of late...then again, they all have. Greg needed some guidance, though he’s come far from his lab rat days, Nick noticed him volunteering to work in the lab,  lingering in DNA, still holding onto days of old where he didn’t have to face the horror displayed in crime scenes. Riley...well she’s new, but she was thrown into a situation that’s...tough to say the least. She didn’t know Warrick, but she works in void of his shadow.

He needed to be strong. The rock of the team was gone, the threads were slowly unraveling and he felt it was his responsibility to keep everything together, before he unravels, too.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose, and decided maybe he should head home after all. Or, he could walk into this casino, have a drink, play some cards before heading home. He was just about to enter the revolving doorway, when his phone began to ring.

“Stokes,” he answered. Why didn’t he check the caller ID? His head was throbbing. He should have let it go to voicemail. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now.

“Nick, I’m sorry, I know it’s your night off, but we just got a call, we got a 419 at a hotel on Fremont Street, and Catherine and I are tied up right now.”

“I can handle it,” Nick sighed. “Just me, or--?”

“Nobody, you’re solo on this one. I just called Riley, and Greg’s maxed out on overtime.”

“Night of the pifflings, huh?”

There was a pause from Grissom, Nick could almost hear a short huff on the other line, the beginnings of a chuckle, perhaps?

“Thanks, Nicky.”

Nick closed his phone and walked away from the casino doors, yet another connection to Warrick lost on him. He had visited that same casino a couple years back, to play cards, with a friend.

———————————----

The scene was a bloodbath. There was no other way to put it, and although Nick has seen plenty before this one, and will most certainly see more in the future, there was something just so...disturbing to him about this particular scene.

The victim was young, far too young, as they always are. A young red-haired woman, stabbed to death. Her entire body was covered in cuts, in varying lengths and depths. Her body was splayed out on the ground, her arm reaching for something that wasn’t in front of her. They found her phone kicked underneath the couch a few feet away, perhaps that’s what she was reaching for.

They didn’t find any prints, knives, hairs or fibers. Nick had searched the room inch by inch, looking for anything that could direct him to finding out who did this. The deranged murderer who did this knew how to work clean, despite the mess of blood he left behind.

Which usually means it’s the work of someone who has done this before. Someone who gets off on the act of the crime, but knows how to ensure they won’t get caught doing it.

Nick thought he had reached a dead end, once he had gotten back to the lab and assembled all of the pictures on the layout table. The victim’s parents claimed they didn’t know anything about their daughter getting into any sort of trouble--they didn’t even know she was in Vegas. The elevator footage for the hotel she was found in was a bust, she entered the elevator alone on the final night of her life. No orders for room service. She was employed by an office in Houston, Texas, she had taken a week’s vacation. She didn’t have any angry co-workers, and her boss spoke highly of her and her relationships within the office. No threatening emails or text messages.  

All signs pointed to this crime being completely random. The poor woman came to Vegas, presumably for a vacation, and ended up escaping to her doom instead.

“Whoa,” Catherine exclaimed as she stood in the doorway, staring at Nick’s gallery of pictures laid out on the table and bulletin board. “Need any help?”

Nick stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, he hadn’t slept in over a day. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the massive amounts of blood on the floor of the hotel room, of the woman’s arm extended out, reaching for help, of all of the stab wounds on her body. He hadn’t heard her voice before, but he can’t help but imagine her cries and screams as her assailant sliced her.

“Nah, I think I’ve reached a dead end. Trail went cold.”

“Have you gotten any sleep lately?”

Nick frowned and shook his head. Catherine stepped into the room and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe you should get some rest, Nicky.”

“I’m...I’ll be fine. Still adjusting to the shift change, you know?”

Catherine looked back at him with a small twinge of sadness in her eyes.

“Sometimes you just need to look at it with fresh...eyes…”

Her voice trailed off, and she picked up a picture of the victim, a full body shot.

“This looks exactly like a scene I worked last month,” Catherine told him. She ran out and came back minutes later with a file of crime scene photos.

“Alexis Williams, found in a motel room. We didn’t find anything at this scene, either.”

Catherine set her photos next to Nick’s. Both women were laid out the same way, the same position, one arm extended outward, reaching. The other arm wrapped underneath their stomach. The knife slices were different, but as Nick kept staring he noticed a striking similarity on the victims’ back shoulder.

“Hang on...you see that? These cuts are different, like the skin was being peeled back. It almost looks like...an ‘M’ shape...I think we got a serial on our hands.”

“You mean, _you_ got a serial on _your_ hands. I wish I could help, Nicky, but I’ve got too much on my plate. Besides, I bet you could handle it.”

The corners of his mouth raised into a smile.

“A solo serial case? You think so?”

“I know so. You’ve been a CSI 3 for what, five years now? You got this, Nicky.”

Catherine handed him the case file, and left Nick to work. During his investigation, he had found another case file on one other victim, a male, found in a previously four star hotel that closed shortly after his body was found. Hotel, motel, hotel...a pattern, perhaps?

Nick suspected that wasn’t the only pattern in play, as two years later, a male was found in a motel, followed shortly by another female in a different hotel. He had a hunch that the next victim, if they were unable to catch the killer by that time, would be another female.

“I hate being right,” Nick sighed, walking into the break room and throwing down a stack of files and a map onto the table in front of him. He pulled up a chair next to Catherine, who was texting someone on her phone, and drinking coffee.  Before exiting the room, she gave Nick an encouraging pat on the back, though he couldn’t help but notice the bags under her eyelids, and the same twinge of sadness in her eyes. It wasn’t just a look of misery, it was a look of loss.

Nick tried to muster up a charming smile, to try and impart some of his strength to her, but he could only just nod back before returning to work.

Six victims, five different crime scene locations, spread all over the city. This last victim was found in the same motel as the second victim. Another pattern, perhaps?

Nick was circling all of the crime scene locations on a map, when he was disturbed by an annoying whistling tune. He didn’t have to look up, he knew it was Hodges.

“You mind, Goose? I’m trying to concentrate here, man.”

“What are you, King of the Break Room? Get a desk, Stokes.”

“Would if I could,” Nick muttered.

“Speaking of Kings, I heard he’s been looking for you.”

Nick looked up from his papers at Hodges, and gave a brief glance at the man as he stood by the microwave, waiting for his food. Smelled like garlic.

He didn’t say a word, and continued staring at the map, having finished marking down all five locations. He already knew what Grissom wanted to talk to him about, and he wasn’t particularly thrilled to engage in that conversation.

Hodges sat down across from Nick, with a freshly warmed up container of spaghetti. Nick could hardly look at it without imagining the noodles as disembodied limbs, the meat as brain matter, the red sauce as blood.

“He looked a bit pissed,” Hodges continued, as if trying to elicit a reaction out of Nick.

“He always looks pissed,” Nick scoffed, and focused back on his map, when he noticed a third pattern. Connecting the dots between the five locations, he noticed that the locations formed the same exact “M” shape found on the victim’s backs.

“...I thought he was going to break something,” Hodges voice trailed in as Nick brought himself back to the world around him.

“Yeah, sounds good, Dave, I’ll-I’ll talk to you later,” Nick rose from his seat and gathered up his files and map, walking on auto-pilot to Grissom’s office.

Grissom was sitting at his desk, rubbing his forehead with a hand, holding his glasses with the other. Nick knew something was up, even beyond the conversation he knew was coming. Maybe it was another migraine. He gave a quick knock on the doorframe, and licked his lips. He could feel his body tense, his chest puffed out a little, ready for a battle.

“Hey, boss, I think I finally got somewhere in my serial case--This last vic was found in the same motel as the second vic, so, I connected the dots on a map and look at this--”

“Close the door, Nick,” Grissom told him as Nick kept talking. His voice was weary, but firm.

“It’s an ‘M’ shape! Just like the knife wounds. There’s been six victims, but five different crime scenes--each point on the ‘M’ is one of the scenes. It looks like the killer’s going back, now that the ‘M’ is completed.”

Nick watched as Grissom looked at the map, and nodded for Nick to take a seat.

“I was thinking, maybe I could go back and check all of the scenes out, compare a list of all the employees, there’s gotta be another connection that maybe will lead us to the killer.”

“Good work, Nick. I’ll look into it. Here, I’m going to need you to handle this arson on Clark Avenue. ”

Nick’s mouth gaped open as he took the stack of Nick’s files and map away from him, and handed him the assignment slip.

“What are you--You’re not taking me off the case?” Nick asked. He could feel his jaw clench, his heartbeat increased.

“I’m not taking you off, I’m just taking it over.”

“I thought we were past this, man. Catherine assigned me to this case, _solo_ , four years ago.”

“Catherine is no longer your supervisor, I am. But...this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Nick gulped, and his heart sank. He braced himself, for the conversation he knew was coming, but had desperately hoped they wouldn’t have.

“You...didn’t go to counseling after the office incident.”

“It wasn’t mandatory,” Nick retorted instantly. “Besides, I was working on this case and finishing my reports on a few other ones, I didn’t have time.”

He had rehearsed this conversation in his head, but Grissom veered off of the script, catching Nick off guard.

“Are you okay?” Grissom asked. Nick skipping out on therapy was nothing new to either of them, he had explained to Grissom a long time ago that it just doesn’t work for him. What does work, is eating healthy, getting as much sleep as he can, going to work.

But the levels of concern in Grissom’s voice sent a shiver down Nick’s spine. He had only been this soft towards him once before, when he had come back after his abduction a few years ago. Lots of things had changed that first day Nick came back to work, but the newly discovered emotional side to Grissom was the thing that had shocked him the most.

Nick was confused. As far as he was aware, he hadn’t been abducted again. He hadn’t been through some traumatic event to add to his already endless list of nightmares. He had made his peace with Warrick’s death, with Sara leaving for the second time. Why was Grissom being so...not Grissom?

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Nick shrugged.

“Last week, you nearly broke your arm trying to obtain evidence in a garbage compactor.

“We caught a murderous pedophile because of that evidence,” Nick pointed out.

“‘No investigation for the dead is worth hurting the living.’”

Nick scoffed and leaned back in his chair. He felt like he was being tested, like Grissom was trying to impart some wisdom through a quote or silly riddle.

“What book did you get that from?”

“I got it from you.”

Grissom made full eye contact with Nick for the first time since he walked into his office. He kept looking at Nick, directly in his eyes as he got up from his chair, and sat in the one next to Nick. Nick’s right hand was clutching onto the seat of his chair, his knuckles were growing white as he tried to maintain a casual posture, leaning his left arm over the back of the chair. He was putting on the best poker face he could muster, knowing what happened the last time Grissom approached him like this, which also happened the same day he saw the softer side of Gil Grissom.

“Your behavior recently...it...it concerns me, Nick. Between the office situation, the compactor, the two bodies in the dumpster...Riley said she even saw you _smiling_ when you had a gun pointed in your face--”

“That woman wasn’t going to pull the trigger, Griss. She was just scared.”

“So was Mrs. Hendler.”

Nick ignored that last comment, licked his lips and continued, “If anything, Riley escalated the situation--”

“That’s not the point, Nicky. This...this recklessness isn’t you. You’re better than this. It’s not acceptable.”

“So? Write me up, then.”

“I’m not addressing this as your supervisor. I’m approaching you as your friend.”

Nick averted his eyes to the floor, a short silence hung in the air. Grissom was waiting for Nick to speak, but he had nothing to say.

So Grissom continued on, tilting his head to try and get Nick to look at him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know that...I know things have been tough lately. I’ve...We’ve all lost so much in a short time. And I can’t lose anybody else. Especially not you.”

Nick sniffled, releasing his hand from its grip on the bottom of the chair to wipe over his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, missing the days of old where Grissom would communicate his feelings though a short glance or a single word. This openness felt foreign, coming from him. It didn’t feel right.

It didn’t feel right in the alley, and it didn’t feel right at the funeral.

Nick tried to smile, the true, heartfelt smile that he would give Sara when they talked about their abductions, during her own rough days. The smile he would give Greg when he needed encouragement. The smile he would give Catherine, to put her mind at ease and let her know she didn’t need to worry. The smile he would give Warrick, so many times for so many reasons, as part of an unspoken pact between them. He lent them his strength in every instance, and it was Grissom who needed that strength now.

That didn’t feel right, either.

“And I’m...I’m worried, Nick, that you….that you’re…”

Nick was distracted in his attempt to smile at his mentor by his newfound confusion at Grissom, who was no longer looking at Nick. He seemed lost in his mind, which was a familiar sight to Nick, but what wasn’t familiar, was the particular redness around Grissom’s eyes. The way his lips curled up, when he was in thought, was familiar, but not the slight quiver of his bottom lip as he bit down. He seemed like he had something to tell Nick, something really important, but seemed like he didn’t _want_ to say it.

“Just spit it out, man, c’mon,” Nick drawled in a heavy accent. He silently cursed himself for his rudeness, but Grissom didn’t seem to hear him anyway.

“I’m worried that you’re losing regard for your own life, Nick.”

Nick let out a cold, cruel laugh and stood up, knocking the chair off of its feet. He thought about leaving the office, but he had more to say. Grissom remained seated, and stared back at Nick with more patience than his real parents ever had with him.

“You think--You think I’m suicidal, or something? Me?”

Grissom opened his mouth, but Nick didn’t let him respond.

“I’ve been there before, Gris. Sometimes...Sometimes I can still feel that gun against my chin--”

Grissom had stood up and placed both hands on Nick’s shoulders, grounding his shaking body to the spot, speaking in that soft, gentle tone that was making Nick grind his teeth.

“I know, I was there.”

Grissom increased the pressure on his grip of Nick’s shoulder, to keep him rooted in reality, but it didn’t help. Nick floated back into a time he thought he was past remembering.

“Not the second time, you weren’t.”

Nick couldn’t stop the single tear from rolling down his cheek, but he didn’t care about any damaged pride at this point anyway. His body was rigid, his blood was boiling so hard and fast he thought it was going to evaporate through his skin. He could feel his breathing intensify as he wriggled himself out of Grissom’s grasp. The office felt smaller than ever, the walls were closing in. He paced back and forth, trying to control his breathing, counting down from ten in his head, mentally singing a song he hadn’t heard in years.

“It was the first night I was home after--after the hospital. I guess I...slept-walked or somethin’ and...I thought I was...I thought I was back in the...I wasn’t adjusting too good.”

Nick gulped down his tears, he did his best to reign in his voice, to speak clearly, but his accent just got thicker, words were getting harder to form.

He closed his eyes, and he was back in his bedroom, on that night he began to describe. He was on the verge of falling asleep on his bed, which felt just a bit too soft. His body was still covered in itchy, small welts, though they weren’t as intense as they were days before. There was a few of them that were open and bleeding, because he couldn’t _stop scratching_. He was simultaneously cold, from the lack of a blanket, which he had shoved off of himself because it made him feel like he couldn’t move, and hot because he was sweating profusely, oscillating between two worlds; his bedroom, and the box.

The television had been on in the other room, soft bird noises were chirping through the speakers as a british narrator talked indistinctly about the birds and why there were chirping. But the television turned off (later he would find out the tv had been set on a sleep timer) and the lack of noise in the house triggered something within him, because now the house was as quiet as it was when he was in the box, covered with ants, wondering which breath would be his last, and he couldn’t take it any more.

He had kept a gun in the nightstand next to him, having moved the location of his spare gun when he moved houses after his previous brush with death. In his waking nightmare, he must have opened the drawer and pulled it out, and prepared it so that all he would have to do is pull the trigger, before he pressed it against his chin, because if they weren’t going to find him now, they never would--

“Warrick...Warrick was with me, that night. He, uh...He…stopped me.”

Nick took a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing both hands against his eyes. As the stars faded from his vision, he could still see Warrick standing in front of him, telling him to “breathe” as he clutched the gun he had taken from a sobbing Nick Stokes. He kept reminding Nick that it was over, that he was with him now, that he was _safe_.  

“But I’m still here. And Warrick _isn’t_ ,” Nick said to the invisible ghost.

Grissom hadn’t said anything, he stood, intent on listening to Nick pour his heart out in front of him. He again placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, his lips parted to say something, but for the second time in the last couple minutes, he was lost for words. Nick’s head throbbed as he looked into Grissom’s eyes one last time, they were filled with...shock? Anguish? Helplessness? It reminded him of the man he saw in the alley, and he looked away.

He felt stupid for saying what he said, and was full of regret. This wasn’t a therapist’s office, this was his supervisor’s office. Surely, Grissom was going to send him on mandatory leave, tell him to go get his life together.

He couldn't let that happen. It was bad enough he took the serial case from him, he couldn’t let Grissom take a few days of work away from him, too. His work was all he had, at this point. Some scumbag has been murdering people for over four years now, and he keeps getting away with it.

“So trust me when I say, that I am _not_ suicidal, _Gil_ .” Nick spat out in a suddenly harsh tone. “I’ve been there before, I know what it’s like, and this _isn’t it_. All this so called ‘recklessness?’ I’m just trying to do my damn job.”

Grissom still remained silent, but his face hardened. He almost looked angry, but also a little...disappointed? Nick couldn’t help but smile, though his smile wasn’t necessarily sincere. No strength to be transferred, only spite. Finally, this was the Gil Grissom he needed right now. This was the Grissom he was used to seeing.

This was the disappointment he always feared in this moment, he couldn’t care less.

He headed towards the door, crumpled assignment slip in hand.

“I’m not in that damn box anymore--It’s _over_ . Sara left, _again._ Warrick’s _dead_ , and I am moving on. Why can’t you?”

He threw the door to open, with such force that it bounced back against the window, nearly hitting Nick as it slammed shut behind him.

———————————

Nick muttered every curse word in his vocabulary as he drove towards the arson he was assigned to investigate. His anger wasn’t subsiding, but he was starting to feel just a bit guilty at the way he left things with his boss. He was growing less angry at Grissom, and more angry at himself, because he knew Grissom only had his best interests at heart, and on some level, he knew Grissom was right, to call him out on his behavior as of late.

He was at a stoplight, over halfway to the scene, when he noticed a familiar-looking hotel to his right. It was one of the hotels from the serial case, the one that was shut down after the first murder.

It was shut down, and yet, there was a light on in the sixth floor.

It wouldn’t take long to check and see why that light was on, and as he got to the front entrance, he noticed that one of the tampering seals was broken.

“Control, this is Charlie Oh-Three Stokes, I got suspicious activity at the Sierra Boulder Hotel off Clayton Street, I’m going to check it out.”

Nick drew out his flashlight as he entered the dark building. He could hear something, sounding like music, playing in the distance. The music was getting louder, as he ventured further into the hotel lobby.

“Charlie Oh-Three Stokes, situation advised. Nearest patrol unit is ETA ten minutes out. Is backup needed?”

“Control, no backup needed, over.”

“This is Captain Brass, Control, please send back-up to Stokes’ location. Stokes, _wait for backup._ ”

Nick rolled his eyes as he reached the elevator. Great, now Grissom’s got Brass in on all of this, too.

The previously quiet hotel was suddenly filled with the sound of an elevator’s descent. Nick saw the meter above counting down from six to one, and he slowly drew out his gun from its holster.

“Stokes, do you copy?”

 _Ding!_ The music was at full blast now, the elevator doors opened, and Nick lowered his gun and flashlight as he came face to face with the occupant of the elevator, a radio, playing some pop song from the eighties.

He was reaching for his radio when suddenly, he heard the sound of metal clanging together. It sounded like it was coming from the hall past the dining room behind him, the kitchen, perhaps?

“LVPD!” Nick shouted, ignoring the voices on his radio. As expected, nobody responded to his announcement. The kitchen fell silent, but he could still hear the music from the elevator. He walked past the dusty chairs and tables, noticing footprints in the dust on the floor, heading through the swinging door.

He peered through the narrow window, straining his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He couldn’t see any signs of movement, and slowly pushed the door open…

 _Wham!_ His gun and flashlight flew out of his hand as something impacted the side of his head. Dazed, he stumbled backward, reaching his hands out in front of him blindly, as there was a loud crash of metal to his left. He felt someone grab him by his vest, shoving him into a wall. Nick tried to push the mystery assailant off of him, managed to swing at the figure’s face. The figure swung back, hitting Nick in the side of his face. Nick heard a scraping noise on his right, and then felt intense pain in his left shoulder as he was sliced by a sharp blade. He cried out, kicking a foot in front of him to try and push the attacker away, while also applying pressure on the wound. The attacker fell back, and Nick took the reprieve to take in the surroundings. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, his flashlight, which landed across the room, was providing a small amount of light, shining on his gun. The person attacking him seemed to be an older man, he could just barely make out a name tag on the man’s chest in a cursive font--“Marvin.”

“Nick,  _do you copy?_ ”

He was about to grab the radio, tell them he needed backup, but before he could, a hand grabbed his throat, and he felt a sharp prick against his chin. He grabbed at the hand with both of his own, trying to push it away, but in doing so, the knife started to push deeper into his skin. He could feel a tiny trickle of blood pour from his chin.

The room settled into silence, broken only by ambience of Nick’s heavy breathing, the sound of distant music, and the distant whooping of police sirens. He felt hopeful, the corners of his mouth twitched into smile as he could sense the anger from the man in front of him.

“You hear that, asshole? Y’ain’t getting away with this.”

“Tell them everything’s okay,” Marvin hissed at him. “Or your head will be impaled on this knife.”

He gulped, and the cheeky smile slid off of his face. Nick knew he had very little options, if he truly wanted to get out of this alive. He was unarmed, injured, cornered with little room to run away. He was starting to panic from the all too familiar sensation of this entrapment, but it gave him an idea for escape.

He cleared his throat, feeling very conscious of the vein throbbing in his neck, and pressed the button on the side of the radio clipped to his chest.

“This is Stokes, false alarm, just some punk ass kids. Everything’s clear here, _Pancho_.”

_Please Jim...please get the message._

There was a pause on the other end, Nick’s heart fluttered in anxiousness. He had felt slight embarrassment in using such an intimate, personal name as a codename, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Copy that, over and out.”

Marvin began to laugh, goosebumps bubbled on Nick’s arms as he sliced his other shoulder, still holding Nick by his neck. Nick could feel the front and back of his vest flop away from him. He gritted his teeth down in pain as the attacker started to hum along to the distant song, unzipping the front of Nick’s vest with the tip of the knife. Nick’s vest slid to his feet, the cord of the radio drooping along next to him. Marvin noticed this, and cut the coiled cord. He ripped the radio from its clip on Nick’s belt and crushed it with his foot.

“Quit yer squriming,” Marvin growled.

Marvin’s hand tightened around his neck as he began to poke the knife all over Nick’s body--his arms, his chest, his thighs--which made him squirm even more. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with, the stinging all over his body, but there were no teeth attached to his skin like there was before. His lips were becoming dry as he kept his mouth open, trying to inhale as much oxygen as he could. He was running out of air, he could feel his heart beat fast and hard against his chest. He was still gripping Marvin’s wrist with his one of his hands, using the other hand to grip onto the surface behind him as he tried to kick his feet out of his vest, so he could try to kick at Marvin again--

Marvin stopped prodding with the knife, holding it in place at Nick’s abdomen. He twisted the tip of the knife, cutting into Nick’s shirt. The sudden coldness in that region of his body sent a shiver down his spine, and he suddenly remembered seeing a stab wound in the same exact spot on the two male victims.

“I think we’re alone now,” Marvin whispered to Nick, and Nick felt the knife move away from his skin. For a split second, he was relieved, maybe Marvin was going to do something stupid and Nick would get a chance to fight back--

But before he could even come up with that scenario, he felt something impact the tear in his shirt, the tear grew larger, the edges of the tear felt wet, clinging to his skin. He felt like he was burning, like hot lava was pouring out of his body. A loud noise, almost resembling a scream, escaped his body, countered by a deep laugh from the man in front of him.

The pain was so intense he almost felt numbed by it. His breathing stopped momentarily as his body tried to reboot itself--his limbs felt limp and heavy, his hand released from Marvin’s wrist, and fell to his side. His other hand, shaking, was trying to plug the hole in his stomach, but he could feel blood oozing between his fingers.

He stared at Marvin in the face and as he let go of Nick, a wide smile spread across his face. Nick slid to the floor, and gasped, trying to inhale oxygen into his body, regain control over his breathing, but he couldn’t. He started to hyperventilate as the world began to spin, blurred by hot liquid flooding his eyes. Nick’s head fell forward, he blinked out his tears and squinted his eyes between Marvin’s legs, trying to focus on the gun a few feet ahead of him.

Marvin bent down, and pulled the knife out of Nick, drawing out a loud groan from his victim along with the bloodied blade. He then sliced Nick vertically down his torso, tearing his shirt in half. The knife was just barely touching his skin, but Nick could feel the slight sting from the blade. He reached Nick’s pants, paused, and stood up again.

“Gonna need s’more light in here,” he grumbled. He stepped away from Nick’s slumped body, stepping on top of Nick’s leg forcefully on his way to presumably find a light switch.

Nick took this opportunity to roll onto his uninjured side, and he began to sideways crawl towards the gun, one hand still gripping his bleeding abdomen.

He heard more banging, more scraping, Marvin was still humming, although a new song had begun to play in the distance. Nick did the best he could to filter out the sounds, but with every scrape of the knife against the metal counters, every thud against the metal as Marvin drummed along to the music, every inflection in Marvin’s voice, he grew more and more nauseous.

He tried to hold back everything that was rising up in his throat, tried to shove down the fear, tried to remain focused on the gun in the spotlight.

For a second, he thought he could see a pair of legs behind the gun. He forced his eyes shut as he tried to muffle another groan. He blindly pulled himself across the floor, but when he opened his eyes, the world was flooded with white light, and he let out a haunted scream, not from the pain of the stab wound, but from a memory of a systematic torture that lasted over half of a day.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy? We’re just getting started!” Marvin chortled, slicing the back of Nick’s leg. This stopped Nick from crawling for a moment, as he winced at the sudden sting in his left leg, but as soon as the stinging was tolerable, he resumed his crawling.

“ _C’mon, Nicky, you’re almost there_ ,” a voice called out to him. Nick shook his head, he couldn’t be distracted by the ghost, not here, not now.

Marvin let Nick get a couple inches further, before slicing open his other leg. Nick started a tally in his head, to compare to the amount of wounds on the other victims, to have an idea of when the pain _might_ stop...but his counting was disturbed by three more additions to the total, on three separate places on his body.

He was starting to cry fully, tears burned down his cheeks, but his skin felt cold. He could see a pale white blur in the metal cabinet next to him. How far did the knife go into his abdomen? He must be going into shock.

_“Cause of death will probably be exsanguination...Do you really want to go out like that, bro?”_

“N...no…..” Nick stammered, his arm reaching out to the gun, still itching slowly forward with his legs, still trying to keep the stab wound closed. He could feel something that definitely wasn’t just his skin up against his fingers.

Where the hell was his backup? Did Brass forget the significance of the nickname? He knew he was there that night, he remembered seeing him next to Warrick, before they abandoned him. Did he communicate the message to Grissom, thinking it was weird to be referred to as “Pancho?”

Nick felt something push him off of his side, onto the ground. He felt a slow, burning sensation on his back, Marvin was now slicing down his shirt, penetrating his skin with the knife deeper than the previous slices. Nick screamed, half crazed, he thought his body was being sliced in half.

But instead, it was just his shirt that was torn in half. He felt blood seep out of his new wound, but he kept crawling.

Marvin stopped humming, the music was gone. He walked on top of Nick, stepping on his head as he walked around the kitchen island, hissing at Nick to “keep quiet.”

Nick kept moving, he couldn’t stop, especially now that the psychopath was distracted, but he also couldn’t stop the sounds of his pain.

“I said, _keep quiet_!” Marvin shouted in a whispered voice, slicing at Nick’s forearm while stepping on his legs.

“How...how the h-hell can I keep quiet, if y-ya keep cuttin’ me?” Nick grunted in a low voice, not caring if Marvin heard him or not.

_“Smooth, Nicky. Now’s probably not the best time to be a smart ass…”_

“Wh-what kind of stupid name is ‘Marvin’ anyway?” Nick kept muttering.

He was just inches away from arm’s reach of the gun…

He heard soft curse words just as he was thinking of them to himself, followed by the loud, scraping sound of a table being pulled across the floor. Marvin must have been pulling the table to Nick’s right in front of the door, as a barricade.

Nick let out a short, quiet laugh. Unless Marvin had a different reason to try and close himself in the room, his paranoia could only mean one thing, _they came for Nick_. They came to get him after all.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to _cut_ our playdate short,” Marvin huffed. Nick’s ears pricked up, his heart sank. Fear spread through his body like wildfire It gave him just enough strength to inch himself further as quickly as he could. He felt like he was moving through water, his hand blurred in front of him in slow motion as it waved for the gun.

“ _Hang in there, Nicky, they’re coming, they got you…”_

Nick’s fingers wrapped around the grip of the gun, he lifted it up, but his hand was shaking so tremendously that he dropped it on the floor again.

Marvin laughed, he was now crouching down next to him, pulling the hair on the back of his head. Nick kept flailing his arm around, hoping to grab back onto the gun.

“Now what in the _world_ do you think you’re doing?” Marvin asked him in a disbelieving tone. “Huh? LOOK AT ME!”

He shook Nick’s head violently, Nick felt like he was being shaken inside of a snowglobe. He couldn’t even focus on Marvin’s face if he tried, everything was hazy, like the room was covered in fog and then moving at fifty miles an hour.

“Worthless piece of shit,” Marvin spat at him, a wad of saliva landing in Nick’s eye. He stomped on Nick’s hand, Nick heard the sound of crunching, squelching. He cried out in pain as his hand was guided towards the gun under Marvin’s foot. The gun was kicked _just_ out of his reach. Even if he could reach for it again, his broken hand wouldn’t be able to hold it.

He let out a scream so loud it curdled his own blood, as a new pain developed on his back...on his shoulder. It started as a small sting, poking slightly into his skin, before the knife began to slice vertically upwards, peeling back a half of inch of skin as it dragged across. The knife stopped, stinging him at another point, and began to slice diagonally, lifting up another half inch of skin along the way.

On some level, Nick was aware of what was going on, Marvin was branding him, just like he branded all of his other victims, engraving what Nick now understood to be his initial into his skin.

But on another level, all Nick could think about was the pain, and how he just _wanted it to end_. His throat was becoming hoarse from all the screaming. His sobs faded as he realized, there was no point to it anymore. Maybe backup had gone to the wrong hotel. Maybe they figured Nick was as good as dead, anyway. There were other people out there, other potential victims that needed their help. Grissom sure as hell wasn’t going to come help him, after the way Nick treated the man after Grissom offered a shoulder to cry on. Why did he push Grissom away? It was the biggest mistake he’s made in a long time.

 _“Almost there, almost there, just lie still…_ ”

Marvin was on the second diagonal, when suddenly, he stopped. He stepped on top of Nick again, pressing down on his back with his foot before crouching down, wading his way around the other side of the kitchen island.

There was an eerie silence, for a length of time that simultaneously felt like a few seconds and a few hours. Nick wondered if he was already dead, or if some part of him was still conscious, still holding onto a shred of his survival instinct. He wondered if Marvin crawled out of the room and his body would be left to rot in the assumed barricaded kitchen for all of eternity.

The world felt like it was rumbling, shaking. There was a loud banging, clanging sound that was intensifying with every beat. A few things fell on top of his motionless body. Maybe he would be buried alive once more as the building collapsed on top of him.

The building noise finished with a loud _CRASH_ , followed by shouting—a gruff voice that gave Nick the ultimate relief.

“LAS VEGAS POLICE, PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN!” Brass shouted at Marvin.

Nick couldn’t see what was happening, but he was cheering on the inside as he heard the clatter of metal falling to the ground.

“Get him the hell outta here, and get the paramedics _immediately_!” Brass barked out. “Gil, he’s in here!”

“Nick? _NICK_ ! Oh, _God_ , no!”

It was the man from the alley. The man sat on the floor beside Nick. He gently lifted Nick onto his lap, putting a hand on Nick’s abdomen, cradling him in the nook of his free arm. Nick could just barely make out his face, but the man’s skin was reddened, wet. He could hear anxious gulps and panic in his voice.  

It was Grissom.

“Gri…sssssss...ommm,” Nick moaned, his eyes fluttering, he was trying not to slip into the darkness that was calling out to him. He reached his functional hand upwards, grabbing onto Grissoms shoulder. He had something important to tell him. Something really important, what was it? “Tell...ou--”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Don’t move, I’m here, I got you.”

“ _We got you, Nicky_.”

Nick couldn’t stop the rising in his throat, he heaved upwards and something drooled down his chin. He had shut his eyes, and when he opened them, he could see a mixed look of anguish and disgust on Grissom’s face.

“Sssss--orr…y...f-for eeeeev...everythin.”

Nick moved his eyes to the side, and saw the ghost crouching next to him. His vision blurred again, another flood in his eyes preventing him from seeing the ghost.

“M-m-m faaaaault.”

Grissom spoke first, the ghost spoke immediately after.

“No, it’s not.”

“ _No, it wasn’t_.”

“Not...strong ‘nuff.”

“Nicky, don’t you dare say that. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met. Certainly stronger than me.”

The ghost laughed, which made Nick want to laugh too. He tried, but all he could muster was another cry of pain. He could feel his body trying to shut down. He could feel his eyes begin to rollbackward.

“No. No, no, no, no, stay with me, Nicky!”

He looked at Grissom in the eyes, as Grissom grabbed onto his hand firmly, but he relented on his grasp as he quickly realized the hand was broken. Nick could just barely see his reflection in Grissom’s glasses—scarred with that familiar distinctive expression, but this time, the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards. He saw the determination in Grissom's eyes, and nodded at him, the transfer of strength had worked.

He turned his attention to the ghost next to him, who was fading away. He did his job, he didn’t need to stick around any longer.

“B-bye...Ri...rick.”

Nick blinked, and Warrick was gone.

He blinked again, and Grissom’s previously shocked face had turned into one of great bewilderment.

He blinked again, and now Grissom was looking where Warrick has just sat.

He blinked again, and now Grissom was pushing him away, handing him off to someone else.

_No...Don’t leave me…_

He blinked, and he was strapped down on a gurney. Seeing this sent his body into an involuntary spasm, he could feel something within him telling to fight the straps, but his body screamed at him as he tried to move. Grissom was jogging beside him, covered in blood that wasn’t his.

He blinked, and there was a light above him, which did nothing but _piss him off_. But the hand—his good hand, that would have ripped it right out of the ceiling was occupied. Grissom was holding it.

He blinked, but his eyes wouldn’t open again.

———————————----

“It could have been a lot worse,” Grissom’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he could picture Grissom standing in the doorway to the hospital room. He could hear soft sniffling beside him.

“Really, Gil, that’s all you have?” Catherine spat angrily. She sounded deeply disturbed, disgusted with Grissom.

“Well, it could have. He’s lucky to be alive.”

The dialogue sounded familiar to him, _what year is this?_ He wondered.

“You’re--you’re acting like this is just another victim! This is Nicky, we’re talking about here, _our Nicky!”_

“Yes, I know.” His tone remained the same, but the volume of his voice increased, Nick imagined he was entering the hospital room. “And that’s how I know he’s going to be okay.”

A surge of affection waved over him, he wanted to smile at Grissom’s belief in him to make it out of this in a sound, mental state.

“I’ll call his parents,” Catherine sighed. Her voice sounded further away, perhaps she was leaving the room.

Nick tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt so heavy, like they were tied to his cheeks.

“No, I will,” Grissom responded. His voice sounded heavier, older, drained. He almost sounded uncertain, as if he doubted that he could make that call.

He could hear the retreating steps of high heels, and a long, deep breath from Grissom.

“Nicky, my boy...the hell you got yourself into...how did we get here?” Grissom asked, speaking so lowly that Nick had to strain himself to hear him. “You...you almost died, thinking that it was your fault. Thinking that I was...disappointed in you.”

He felt something grab his hand, which felt...smooth. Not bumpy, like he expected it to be. He noticed the lack of itchiness, the lack of burning. It startled him, he wanted to fling it away, he wanted to _run_ , but his body couldn’t move. After he got over the initial shock, he felt comfort as his cold fingers were intertwined with warm ones.

“You never, and I mean _never_ did, Nick. Okay?”

Another hand pressed on top of their enclosed hands.

“You’re going to survive this, just like you always do. Consider it an order.”

Grissom fell silent for a few moments, and slowly, his hand was released.

“Judge Stokes, this is Gil Gris--I apologize, I didn’t know it was so late….No, he’s, uh...well, he got injured.”

He could hear distant shouting, his father’s voice, when angered, was the loudest noise in the world.

“ _Injured? What the hell happened now?”_

“He got stabbed, multiple times, in an attempt to bring a serial killer to justice...He’s in the hospital now, but he’s...he’s not…”

A hitch, in Grissom’s voice. Nick could hear him inhale and exhale deeply before continuing.

“He’s not doing too good.”

Nick’s heart sank, hearing the waver in Grissom’s voice. Whatever was going on, he had to fight it. He couldn’t let Grissom down, not here.

“He was diagnosed with peritonitis. He just got out of surgery, but he...he hasn’t woken up yet.”

_Wake up, Nick. Wake up._

Nick tried to open his eyes again, and he was in his childhood bedroom. His mother was knocking on the door, telling him to wake up.

“No...five more minutes,” he moaned, shutting his eyes shut again.

_Wake up, dammit!_

He opened his eyes, and he was on the ground, staring at a broken tree, a broken window. He tried to tell Warrick that his attacker was still in the house, watching the scene from the window, just as Nick had stared down into the dumpster from a different window.

The pain was too overwhelming, being lost in time this way. He shut his eyes again, trying to focus…

_Pancho, wake up!_

He opened his eyes, and he was in darkness. Not total darkness, no, there was just the slightest of green glows, illuminating the cramped space around him. This was the hell he got himself into, this was the hell he was doomed to be trapped in, forever.

He shut his eyes tight, but when he opened them again, he was still _there._

A scream started to rise up his throat, but his throat was so damaged it didn’t sound right.

“Nicky?” Grissom asked, breathlessly. “Nick, can you hear me?”

He wanted to cry, but now his eyes wouldn’t close. The ceiling of his prison was rising, he was left staring at an endless void. But he realized the ceiling wasn’t rising, he was _falling_. His limbs began to float upwards, he struggled and flailed to regain control, but he kept falling faster and faster...his back felt like it was on fire, his stomach felt stapled shut. His breath couldn’t keep up with him, it was growing faster and shorter.

A hand pressed against his chest, and he stopped falling. His body felt grounded, he was rooted back in reality.

He shut his eyes and opened them again, and he was in a hospital room. Grissom was sitting next to him.

“Gris?” Nick asked. His body still felt heavy, exhausted. The room was spinning, slightly, but he wasn’t nauseous. He must be on some sort of drugs.

His hand slowly reached towards Grissom, he needed to make sure he was real.

“Yes, Nicky, I’m here.”

He closed his hands around Nick’s again, and stared at him intently.

“I’m sorry,” Nick blurted out, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“So you’ve said,” Grissom smiled. “Multiple times.”

Nick lowered his head and began to examine himself, to figure out where the pain was coming from. He was dressed in a hospital gown, his arms were bandaged. His hand was wrapped up in a cast. He had an IV hooked up to one of his arms. He could hear the monotonous beeping tone of the heart monitor. Grissom said something about a surgery, he lifted up the blanket and gown, and suddenly remembered the stabbing.

“We got him?” Nick asked. He had many thoughts running through his head, but words couldn’t seem to form beyond a few at a time.

“Yes, thanks to you.”

“Was stupid.”

“Yes, it was.

“Anoth...Another pattern,” he breathed, looking at the bandages.

“Male, then two females,” Grissom nodded. “In fact, you interrupted Marvin’s attempt to kill another victim. We found him on the sixth floor, unconscious.”

“Stupid name…”

Grissom let out a small chuckle, and his smile faded as he cleared his throat.

“I, uh, called your parents.”

“I heard.”

“Oh…”

Grissom’s turn, to hang his head in shame. He sniffled, and released his hold on Nick’s hand. He could sense that Grissom was uncomfortable, that he was about to leave, and Nick’s eyes began to burn. He didn’t want him to go, not yet.

“Saw him,” Nick told him. “Warrick.”

Grissom gulped, and suddenly his brow furrowed, a frown etched on his face. He recognized the expression, he had it at the funeral, when he was giving the eulogy. Nick found Grissom’s hand again, pulled him closer, to bring Grissom back into reality, to make sure their eyes met when Nick addressed him.

“Helped me. So did you,” Nick added, to try and impart the importance of Grissom’s presence to the man himself, because he wasn’t a ghost. He was real, he was alive, he was Nick’s friend, one that he needed more than ever.

“ _Y_ _ou_ were there.”


End file.
